


Rat Face

by rile



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Ankle/Foot Trauma, Blood and Gore, Fake AH Crew, Gen, Goretober, Imprisonment, Pet Adoption, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-15 23:28:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12330978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rile/pseuds/rile
Summary: Ryan gets captured and has to free himself. This is both easier and harder than expected.





	Rat Face

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MelodramaticMrTails](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelodramaticMrTails/gifts).



> Please, heed the tags.

So, he’d been caught. Not the first time someone’s managed to get lucky and it definitely won’t be the last-- but it’ the first time Ryan’s been caught when part of a crew that hadn’t just sold him out. Sure, he’s still on contract for FAKE and not an actual part of their tight-knit family, nor does he ever expect to be part of it, but it still leads him to wonder what exactly is the polite protocol in this situation; does he wait for them like a trained dog or does he get himself out of this mess? 

Pros to getting himself out: he gets out almost immediately. Cons to getting himself out: his physical well-being.  
Pros to waiting for FAKE: none that Ryan can think of, honestly. Maybe FAKE trusts him a little more? Who the fuck knows with Ramsey. Cons to waiting for FAKE: he has to wait, and wait, and wait, and then be in debt to FAKE for showing up which is bullshit.

Who is Ryan kidding, he cares for his body about as far as he can throw it. He likes living, but he hates the dysfunctional flesh prison he’s been trapped in. Yeah, he totally loves taking meds every day and having no faith in his perception of reality, thanks you good for nothing, piece of horse shit brain. Ryan will sacrifice his physical well being for a candy bar so having it as payment for his escape is literally one of the easiest choices he’s ever made.

The idiots that kidnapped him have him chained to a cement wall in some dank cellar and from what Ryan can tell it’s an easy escape up the stairwell directly in front of him and through the wooden doors at the top. The doors are the big kind, the kind that lead out directly into someone’s backyard. Whoever had thought this was a decent place to hold him was a total moron, because Ryan’s escaped out of Chuck-E-Cheese’s more complicated than this. Rolling his shoulders and tipping his neck, Ryan squeezes his toes tight against the dirt floor and lets out a long sigh as he considers his options from here.

Get out of the manacles which he already did a little while ago because the idiots didn’t take his wrist watch from him-- it’s one of those gimmicky watches that are supposed to hide a stash of weed in a hidden compartment but instead of weed Ryan hides a small bobby pin for situations exactly like this. The problem with all this is that the cuffs that chain his feet to the wall-- well. Those are a little more tricky. The little shits that put him here had these ones specially made so the only way to unlock them is from the inside and given how the flesh of Ryan’s ankle is already being cut into by the metal, there’s no wiggle room for him to work. Either he cuts off his feet or he makes room to work.

No need to go into a pros and cons chart for this choice. Ryan is kind of attached to his feet (ha) and would like to stay that way for a while. Make room it is. Good thing he has a collection of interesting scars already because he’s about to add two more to the roster pretty fucking quickly-- all he needs is something to do his work with. Ryan isn’t picky, he just needs something sharp enough to do the job.

Ryan gropes around on the dirt floor for his potential blade. There’s a glint just a little out of his reach but if he stretches, he can scrape his fingertips along the surface of whatever it is. Better be sharp. Reaching forward with both hands, Ryan digs and scrambles towards the object-- no fucking luck, and because he has no luck, he sees a rat scurry out from under a rotting shelf, snuffling around where Ryan’s been scraping at the floor.

“The fuck you looking for?” Ryan challenges, the rat barely giving him even a glance as it follows the scent of something along the dirt before scampering into the hole Ryan’s dug. It’s an ugly fucker, scarred and mean looking with half its tail gone, but it’s little rat paws dig at the dirt way more effectively than Ryan’s fingertips were. Within minutes the scent of decay hits Ryan’s nose and the rat is surging forward, grabbing whatever it had been digging for greedily.

Turns out that the glint in the floor was from a broken food jar. With all the work the rat’s done, a decent sized chunk is ripe for the taking. It’s sharp, a clean break with no glass slivers, but covered in dirt and juice from whatever rotting substance was previously inside of it and now inside of his new rat best friend. Using his sweat-stained undershirt, Ryan cleans it off the worst of the dirt because sure, he’s not picky, but he’s also not going to brazenly tempt fate like that. 

Now the fun part.

There’s not even room to wiggle his finger in the ankle chains but he can feel the lock of the cuffs laying just across his achilles tendon. In an area like that, making room is less about digging away flesh and more about cutting what little flesh there is apart. His fingers tighten around the glass as he bites his lip hard. Ryan has had a lot of injuries in his time as a merc, but never before has he split his ankles this way. He should still be able to walk if the pain isn’t too great, but he knows it will be slow and plodding and he may as well drag himself to freedom. Turning the glass over in his palm, Ryan pulls the hem of his shirt into his mouth with his free hand and positions himself as carefully as he can.

All at once or not at all. Ryan really, really wants to avoid dragging his out longer than he needs to and would love to avoid having to saw at his own fucking feet. Like a bandaid, Ryan thinks to himself. Just like a bandaid.

The first cut makes him intensely glad he stuffed a bunch of his shirt into his mouth because he has to muffle his scream into the fabric. The glass is biting into the palm of his hand and it takes a moment for his vision to clear from the whiteout pain he had just put himself through. He’s not even half way through the first ankle, what the fuck. He’s only going to get weaker the longer this goes on so without giving himself more time to recover, Ryan goes back to fucking sawing through his own achilles tendon. His fingers are slick with blood, his leg is slick with blood, the metal shackles are slick with blood, and the scent of iron and copper overwhelms the pungent smell of food decay. The gash in the back of his ankle is a gaping maw, ragged despite his best attempts at keeping the cut even and gushing blood onto the dirt floor below him. 

It’s only now, once he’s half way finished his task and twitching in pain, that Ryan gives himself a moments reprieve. He leans back against the wall of the cellar and pants, knocking his skull against the stone a few times to distract himself from the pain radiating up and over his entire leg. From the corner of his eyes he sees the rat, finished his meal come sniffing towards him, beady eyes looking at him to assess the danger. Ryan sits himself forward and stares right back at the rat. “Going to try and eat me?” he asks, gauging his rat companion right back.

Who is he kidding, he doesn’t have the spare energy to shoo the thing away and he’s already cutting open his own ankle with a dirty piece of glass. If the rat bites him it would be, literally, the least of his problems. Settling back against the wall and catching his breath, the rat scampers forward and presses its nose into the pool of blood that’s pouring out of Ryan. He sees its little pink tongue dart out and Ryan finds himself nodding in acknowledgement. The rat just had a good meal, of course he’d want to finish it up with something to drink. “I like you.” Ryan finally declares as the rat continues to sip at his blood. Ryan reaches forward, palm aching, and pets the ugly dirty thing which seems oddly content to receive his affection. He’d always been an animal person.

“Gonna give me some space?” Ryan asks as he pulls his bobby pin off the collar of his shirt where he’d tucked it for safekeeping, deciding that it’s time to partially free himself. The rat doesn’t respond but keeps watching him. It’s only when Ryan shifts that the rat backs up but even then it’s just a few little rat steps. The thing keeps a bead on him and Ryan shrugs as he wipes his hands clean on his shitty jeans, attempting to dry himself just a little before digging in and picking the lock, “Work calls. You can get back to drinking in like two seconds.”

Pulling apart the slabs of flesh that used to connect his calf to his foot is gruesome and painful, but Ryan positions his foot and leg so he has as much working room around the cuff as possible. It’s a miracle but he has enough room to shimmy the bobby pin in and into the lock, and his own amazing talent and genius that has him springing the lock in under a minute. The metal splits apart and instantly Ryan pulls his leg out of the shackle and slaps his ankle back together as best he can by propping his knee up, putting pressure on both sides of the wound. He can’t tell if that helps stop the blood loss through all the prior blood that’s created a horror story out of the scene, but it feels like he’s done something right, at least.

Picking up the glass once more, Ryan turns to regard his rat friend with a wry smirk. “You ever see something like this before?” He asks it, chattering mostly to himself to use as a distraction from the pain. He’s never really liked talking to people, his tone too flat and emotionless for them to really engage and most of their responses leave him without anything to say in return. He has a social script he likes to try and keep to but when people deviate, it throws him for a loop; animals, on the other hand, just listen. Ryan can say whatever he wants, whatever comes to mind, and they listen to him without judgment or ridicule. There’s no script to follow, no patterns to look for, just Ryan and his animal friends. “Bet you have. Look at you, you’ve probably done this to rats who stepped to hard on your turf.”

The rat comes forward as Ryan absently babbles, drinking his blood again but this time taking a position closer to Ryan, the heat from his little rat body pressed against Ryan’s thigh. It’s comforting. Is it weird to find it comforting? Probably. Whatever, Ryan would die for this rat now and he doesn’t care who knows it.

Round two of cutting his own body apart is no easier than round one was. In fact, it’s probably worse but that’s how it usually goes when it comes to this kind of self harm. He made a mistake and gave himself a cool down period where his nerves settled down from being on fire but were still oversensitive and achy. The fibrous tendon is tough to cut through, like cutting through gristle or cartilage, and Ryan has to actively work to get that shit to finally pop. This time he doesn’t waste any time drying his hands and taking his bobby pin to release himself from the wall shackles, catapulting him into the final stage of his prison break: the escape.

Groaning and stuff his bobby pin back into the collar of his ruined shirt, Ryan shifts on the dirt floor so he’s laying down on his back, breathing heavily as he feels his head starting to swim from blood loss. Exhaustion is creeping up on him but he can’t let himself succumb to that-- not until he’s somewhere safe and he’s at least moderately patched up. Rolling over onto his stomach, Ryan begins to drag himself to the wooden stairway, his fingernails already starting to show signs of pulling up from the rough treatment. At least if he drags himself like this his ankles won’t tear further and dirt won’t get in them too much-- not that Ryan’s really in the right position to care about such things as a little dirt in his wounds.

Once he’s reached the wooden staircase, Ryan realize he still has company. The rat has scurried along beside him as he crawled his way to freedom, squeaking once they reach the first step and Ryan looks at the animal incredulously. 

“Do you want to come with me?” He asks it, watching the rat move back towards his legs, lap up some of the blood that’s trailing behind him, and rush back forward the steps. The rat has no fear and Ryan appreciates that about a man. With a laugh, Ryan reaches and carefully picks up the mammal, feeling its little heart race against his fingertips, and places it on one of the higher steps. He starts the process of hauling himself up, making sure his friend is safe the whole way. The pain in his ankles hasn’t dulled one bit, but it’s manageable now that Ryan has so many other things to focus on.

The door out is an easy solution-- the wood is plywood and had obviously been put together in a haste. Ryan has noticed that on his way into the cellar and he laughs about it now that he’s on his way out. Ryan knows he’s suffered from a lot of blood loss at this point but he also knows he’s not a weak man. After everything he’s put himself through, there’s no way he’s going to let a shitty piece of plywood keep him from busting out. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Ryan looks down at his rat, and his rat looks back at him from just two steps down, sniffing the air as he lends his meagre body warmth to Ryan’s knee. Ryan has never been so thankful for another living creature as he is for this rat, and the comfort the rat gives him is enough to make him smile. 

Only, the lock on the plywood door behind him begin to shake. That’s a mood killer if there ever was one. There’s no way for Ryan to feasibly cover up what he’s done, no way for him to hide from whoever is opening to door. Reaching down Ryan brings his rat to his chest and curls over him protectively, because if he gets shot or beat or whatever these scumbags are going to do to him before putting him back up against the wall, he’s not going to let them hurt his rat.

“Jesus fucking Christ these hillbilly fuckers just had to go and make everything ten times more difficult, didn’t they? Who the hell puts a deadbolt on a cellar door?!”

Wait.

Ryan knows that voice. 

That’s the voice of Ramsey. Face contorting in confusion, Ryan turns around to look at the shaking doors before sunlight suddenly spills into the cellar as the plywood is thrown open. Ryan brings a hand up to cover his eyes and regards the two men and one lady standing all around the entrance who look just as surprised to see him as he is to see them. No one says a word as Ryan watches them take in the bloody mess he made of the cellar and of himself. Geoff has a look of open disgusted horror, Jack’s expression is collected but there’s a tick on her lips that signals her thoughts well enough, and Michael is looking at Ryan like he looks a math puzzles.

Straightening himself up, Ryan keeps his rat close to his chest and clears his throat. “Afternoon, pleasant day we’re having.” he tries, not exactly sure what else he should say in this situation. He doesn’t have a script for this situation and he really doesn’t feel up for winging it. Why couldn’t he just be talking to his rat? Ryan misses talking to his rat.

“Hi, Ryan.” Jack says softly as she crouches down, running a hand through his bloodied blond hair. Ryan doesn’t mind physical contact from her and never really has. She doesn’t demand a lot from him and Ryan likes that a lot. “Busy day?” She asks conversationally, and Ryan knows she’s asking how he’s doing but doing it in a way that follows along the lines of other casual conversations they’ve had. She follows the script. Ryan doesn’t cry but he feels his chest tighten up.

He’s just really really tired and made a new friend and now he wants to sleep and make sure his new friend stays safe.

“Yeah.” Ryan answers. “This is Reggie.” He introduces, showing just a hint of his rat to Jack before tucking him back in against his chest. “We’re both pretty tired. Got the car ready to go?”

Michael opens his mouth to say something but Geoff clears his throat before the young man can say anything. “Yeah, Lindsay is ready to go and we’ve got Mica and Trevor ready to patch you up.” 

Ryan nods his head absently and begins to try and push himself out of the cellar with one hand, but Michael is there to hoist him up by his armpits and sling one of Ryan’s grimy arms around his shoulders, not making Ryan give up Reggie as the Rat burrows into the crook of his elbow and away from the sun. Ryan can’t blame him-- and honestly, Ryan kind of wishes he could do the same. The sun is a lot to handle after the darkness of the cellar.

He can hear Geoff and Jack talking behind him but Ryan finds he doesn’t really care. Reggie is warm and grounding in his arms and Michael is hauling him somewhere safe and everything feels fuzzy. Ryan’s never had a crew that had his back, never had a crew that would go looking if he went missing. Ryan’s never had a crew he cared about. 

Until now, it seems. Ryan finds he doesn’t mind the change at all.


End file.
